CHAPTER XXXIX. WITH CHEERFUL COURAGE ALFRED SETS FORTH ON ANOTHER LONG JOURNEY
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CHAPTER XXXIX
WITH CHEERFUL COURAGE ALFRED SETS FORTH ON ANOTHER LONG JOURNEY
So may it be, perchance, when down the tide
Our dear ones vanish. Peacefully they glide
On level seas, nor mark the unknown bound
We call it death--to them 'tis life beyond.
--ANONYMOUS.
ALFRED always bore heavy sorrows courageously, and, though for a time after the loss of his dearest friend his health gave way completely, before many weeks had passed away, upheld by the thought of seeing his children again, he was employing his strong will, and still powerful brain, to drive on his now feeble body to make the necessary preparations for the long voyage, that must be negotiated before that bright hope could be realised.
Most fortunately, he had not to make that journey unattended, for the good Providence that often comes to our aid when our resources are at their lowest ebb, had sent kind, capable John Withell (the husband of one of Alfred's favourite nieces) to England on business that summer. He was returning to New Zealand in the autumn, and offered to look after his uncle on the voyage. Needless to say that this kind offer was joyfully accepted.
Occupied with multitudinous preparations, the time sped swiftly by till Alfred's last day in England arrived. He rose at six o'clock on that morning to write farewell letters, despatch telegrams, and make some final purchases in the London shops. The last of the many voluminous letters that he sent to New Zealand during his sojourn in England was written that evening as he sat on the deck of the "Paparoa," warmly wrapped up in rugs by his thoughtful nephew, John Withell. Alfred thus concludes this letter:
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"My heart grows lighter, my limbs less feeble, and my brow less wrinkled, as I realise that every day I live I shall be getting nearer to you; and I now feel a great confidence that I shall be granted the few weeks more of life that will be all that is necessary to carry me back to my own loved ones."
Those few weeks were granted, and, on the morning of Sunday, October 30th, quite a large group of Alfred's children and grandchildren gathered on the Lyttelton wharf to welcome him home. The steamer was sighted about 1 p. m., and, before long, Alfred was seen on her deck leaning on the arm of his eldest son, William, who had gone as far as Wellington to meet him. Before the gangway that connected the steamer with the wharf was put down, Alfred's son Samuel lifted his two little girls over her bulwarks, and they soon made their way to their grandfather's side. So that he was first greeted by members of his family who had grown and altered so much during his five years' absence that he had to be introduced to them over again. He, too, had greatly changed. It was a very feeble old man who stood there, gazing with such beaming smiles at his children's familiar faces; but some of the old indomitable spirit still shone out of his blue eyes, and lingered in his decided and fearless movements.
When Alfred reached Lavington Cottage, which was henceforth to be his home, it was looking its best and brightest in the glorious spring weather. He praised the garden, the house, and the various little preparations that had been made for his comfort, seeming as delighted as a child at being safely home again. A few happy days followed, and then Alfred was once more prostrated by a return of the hemorrhage from which he had suffered so much in the past.
All their efforts to relieve him proving futile, his daughters sent for Dr. Fox, who, after a talk with Alfred, proposed performing an operation that an English doctor had suggested more than two years before. This operation was performed at Nurse Turner's Hospital, and, for some weeks afterwards, Alfred hovered between life and death. Dr. Fox, who, by his skill and kindness, had gained great influence over him, was very desirous at this time that Alfred should take alcoholic stimulants of some kind; but he steadily refused to do so, evidently
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feeling that it would have been a violation of the principle of total abstinence from such stimulants which he had advocated throughout his long life. Apart from this, he still had the most absolute faith in his own judgment that alcohol in any form would be harmful, not helpful, to him.
Nine weeks after his operation, Alfred was able to return to Lavington Cottage. He was very feeble, but the severe pain was gone, and he would lie on his couch amusing himself with his books and papers, or in talking to the relations and friends who came to see him, sometimes saying with bright serenity:
"I don't think many old people have so much peace and comfort in their last days of life as I have in mine."
Alfred had many visitors. His children and grandchildren came from afar to see him; and his first New Zealand great-grandchild, a pretty little baby girl, was brought many hundreds of miles that he might have the pleasure of holding her in his arms. Old friends from all over New Zealand, his colleagues on the Board of Education, and members of the House of Representatives with whom he had been associated, all came to say farewell to the old comrade who was passing so calmly and cheerfully away.
Sir John Hall, Alfred's associate in his efforts to obtain Womanhood Suffrage and to exercise care and economy in the expenditure of public money, was always a welcome visitor; and so was Mr Seddon, the stalwart Premier, who showed to much advantage in the little sick room, as he lowered his powerful voice or softened his heavy tread to meet with its requirements.
The Rev. Decimus Dolamore (for whom "the prophet's chamber" in Brightwater Mill house had been built) came regularly to read and pray with Alfred, and it was a pleasant sight to see the two silvery heads bending over the Bible Alfred's mother had given him so many years ago. The little service over, a chat about old times followed, when the two old friends were often heard laughing most heartily at things that had long gone by.
Alfred's son Samuel (at that time editor of the "Lyttelton Times") came almost every day to see him, bringing books, papers, fruit, and flowers, and keeping
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him well informed as to all that was going on in the world around him. Till almost the last day of his life, Alfred greatly enjoyed a talk on the political situation with this son, whose views differed sufficiently from his own to provide plenty of scope for argument.
Lavington Cottage was next door to the home of Alfred's daughter Sarah, who, on fine afternoons, would often take him out in his bath chair; and, with her bright face leaning over him, whilst her sturdy little sons trotted along at his side, he passed many pleasant hours.
A few days after he returned to New Zealand, Alfred said to one of his daughters:
"Sarah promised me faithfully that, if there was any possible way in which she could communicate with me after death, she would do so. "However," he went on sadly, "I have never in my dreams, or in any other way, received what I could regard as a communication from her."
But one morning during this last winter of his life, he greeted the same daughter with a very bright smile, saying:
"I feel convinced that Sarah came to me last night. I heard her say so plainly, in her peculiarly clear, distinct voice, and with the strong accent on the first syllable of my name that no one else has ever employed in addressing me, 'Alfred.'"
In the long, wakeful watches of the night, Alfred often amused himself by reciting aloud poems that he had learned by heart many years before. He delighted in the works of the Quaker poet Whittier, especially in "The Eternal Goodness." He loved also the poems of Cowper, Longfellow, Burns, Macaulay, Crabbe, and Mrs Hemans. He enjoyed the sonorous flow of Mrs Barbauld's hymns, often falling asleep with their soothing rhythm upon his lips.
So autumn and winter passed tranquilly away, and the time of the singing of birds drew nigh. Alfred welcomed the spring flowers and the first delicate green of the foliage with delight, saying happily, "I have never seen a more beautiful spring than this."
But, as the days grew warmer, his strength failed very rapidly; he could no longer leave his bed; and
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sometimes lay for hours in a heavy sleep or stupor from which he would rouse himself with an effort when addressed.
Thus he grew daily weaker, until the time arrived when he and those who stood and knelt around his bed knew that the hour of his departure was at hand. His laboured breathing had almost ceased when his blue eyes opened wide, shining with love and intelligence, and, stretching out his hand to his children each one in turn, his lips just formed the words "Good-bye." The next minute, those who watched beside him thought that his spirit had departed, for his eyes closed and the ashen hue of death spread over his motionless face. His youngest daughter, who was still kneeling by his side holding his hand in hers, began to sob aloud. The sound of that loved voice in distress seemed to recall Alfred's spirit, and, like one who, hastening to keep an important appointment, turns back for a moment to comfort a child weeping over his departure, his eyes opened, and, fixing them upon her with a look of deep affection, he feebly tried to caress her hand. Through all the loving sympathy expressed in that dying face, there shone triumphantly an expression of eager expectancy that seemed to say, as plainly as if the pale lips had articulated the words:
"Be comforted, my child. There is nothing whatever to weep about. This is quite the most interesting and important journey that I have ever undertaken. How much I wish that I could write and tell you all about it."
Thus, as fearlessly and hopefully as, sixty-four years previously, he had sailed from the Downs for the far distant shores of New Zealand, Alfred Saunders passed onward. It was on October 28th, 1905, just a year from the day that the "Paparoa" had carried him safely into the Auckland Harbour.
His worn-out body was laid to rest in the Linwood cemetery, and many true friends stood round the grave whilst his old friend Mr Dolamore led the short, simple burial service.
